It'll Be Alright
by snowdreams
Summary: Dean is saved from Hell but the experience there has scarred him more than just physically. Can Sam save his brother from himself before it is too late? Lots of Traumatised!Dean and Protective!Angsty!Sam. Please R&R.
1. To Hell and Back

Hi, this is my first ever Supernatural story and my first time writing a story for anything other than anime and I'm honestly a nervous wreck! This idea had stuck in my head for quite some time and I _had_ to get it out. I typed it in three hours and it's unbeta-ed so please forgive any terrible mistakes...There's no Wincest here(as much as I love it) but I hope you'll like it anyways. Enjoy! :)

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><p><strong>It'll Be Alright<strong>

The first day Dean is brought back, it is exactly 1 minute past midnight. Sam is hunched over a desk spilled with research and papers he's been doing for…days? Weeks? He doesn't remember, doesn't even care. There are bags under his eyes and his cheeks look sunken. Sam's mind is gone and his body is just a machine which he uses to find ways to save his brother. His brother who's now in Hell.

His eyelids are drooping, body about to give in to five days without sleep and only caffeine when suddenly—

"THUMP."

The sound startles him awake. His hunter instincts fly in and he whips out his gun and aims it behind him.

"Who's there?!" He barks.

An empty bedroom, with two-day old Chinese takeout replies him.

There is a moment of confusion as he looks everywhere, and then he notices it:

-A pair of muddy boots peeking out from the small space between the wall and the bed.

His blood freezes. He knows the boots…but no. It can't be. He approaches it warily, gun tight and ready in his hand. As he goes closer the dirt-caked boots are followed by a pair of tattered jeans and then…

Sam forgets to breathe.

_Oh, God._

The gun falls to the floor with a clatter and he slowly sinks onto the floor.

"Dean…?"

He stares at the familiar face. It's decorated with cuts and ugly gashes but clearly the face of his older brother.

His eyes trail to the shredded shirt covering his brother's torso. It's soaked with blood, and he can see numerous carvings, cuts or bruises decorating almost every inch of his brother's frighteningly alabaster skin.

Distractedly, he remembers the times where Dean had joked about Sam's tanner skin.

"_How come you go hunting less and you're the one who gets the tanned skin, you dweep?" Dean scoffs._

"_You're just jealous." Sam shoots back._

Not like this. _Not like this._

Bile rises in his throat.

He swallows it back down, forces himself to come back to the rational world.

He checks for a pulse and breathes a sigh of relief when it's there. It's thready and uneven, but there.

He tends to the wound, trying not to wince when he peels off the clothes. He stitches, bandages, disinfects—it's hard to sew up the carvings when his hands are trembling so bad. There are no broken bones, thank god. He seriously contemplates bringing his brother to the hospital this time, but it's too risky. What can he say?

_Oh, sorry. My brother just got out of Hell so he isn't in a good shape well. And he's probably mentally traumatised so you might want to be careful too. _

By the time he's done, he's changed the basin of water four times and the towel's soaked crimson. For years to come, Sam would detest the colour red.

After he's done, he tucks his unconscious brother gently into bed, pulling up the covers. He sits by him, bows his head and for the first time in a long while, prays.

_Please God, let him live. _

The second day passes without any movement from Dean. He's so still that Sam has to constantly check on him to make sure he's not actually dead. His skin matches the white sheets. His face is impassive, dull golden eyelashes resting heavily against sunken cheeks. He looks like a corpse. A deep cut that Sam stitched the night before runs from his forehead across his face down to his cheek. Sam takes the limp, bony hand and prays and prays again.

On the third day, Dean wakes up screaming. The sound is piercing and gut-wrenching, like someone being tortured and it's a sound that Sam will never forget the rest of his life, a sound that will give him nightmares for many nights. He has to practically wrestle the withering body out of the motel, away from astonished (and annoyed) motel staff, and into a car. He drives, one hand trying to hold a thrashing Dean down and the other steering the wheel, to a desolate roadway in the middle of the night.

Dean is still at it, hands clamped at his ears and eyes wild and unseeing.

"Dean, it's okay! IT'S OKAY! You're not in Hell anymore!" Sam tries to calm his agitated brother.

Dean doesn't even seem to register him speaking. He continues screaming, that awful tortured noise filling the car.

It lasts for five hours, five full hours until he literally faints from exhaustion, eyes rolling up and body collapsing forward into Sam's arms. Sam hugs the limp body tight, burying his face into the blonde hair, and cries.

The fourth day Dean is silent. It's no shock if his vocal cords are ruined now. Sam's found another motel and he hopes they won't be chased out again. Dean's scaring him. He's not screaming or thrashing about anymore, just huddling in the corner of the room and staring wide-eyed at nothing. He doesn't move a muscle, like he's been frozen in time. Sam attempts to approach him, but even a single step near and he sees the body tense up, like a very tightly coiled whip that'll lash out if touched. He watches him from a distance instead. Eventually Dean falls asleep, head drooping down to his knees. Sam carefully carries him back to bed (it's frightening how he can lift him in ease) and pulls up the duvet. He gazes at his brother's face, cut and bruised, and even in sleep his expression pained, and feels white hot rage flooding his veins.

_How dare they do this to him. _

He's not even spared in sleep. His body jerk and he whimpers, as though he's still being tortured in his dreams.

The next few days are the same. Dean curled at the corner unresponsive, Sam trying to get through to him again and again and failing each time. He won't even eat unless Sam places the food on the bed and leaves. When he gets back the takeout box will be shredded, the plastic utensils will be untouched and chow Mein noodles will be splattered on his face or dangling from his fingers.

He's forgotten how to eat.

One day, and urgent mission forces him away. It's a desperate life-or-death plea from a friend, a favour he owes with his life and he can't reject it. Before he leaves, he makes sure all sharp or dangerous objects are kept and the door is locked and that Dean's okay.

"I'll be back soon, Dean." He promises.

No reply.

Sam returns quickly a few hours later, anxious and worried. Thankfully, the place is not destroyed and Dean is _still_ at where he is.

"That doesn't look very comfortable there does it?" Sam comments. He has two paper bags of takeaway (healthy and nourishing, for Dean) in his hands.

As usual, Dean doesn't respond.

"Let's get you up from here, okay?" He says. He tries to ignore the wary green eyes following his every move, and when Sam's arm touches his sleeve, he jerks away like he's been electrocuted. He backs away into the wall, mumbling something frantically under his lips. Sam's heart rises for a split second at the prospect of his brother speaking but it's crushed when he realises they're Latin incantations.

Sam swallows. "Dean, I'm not a demon. It's me, Sam," Tears well up in his eyes. "It's your brother."

"Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me…" The words are repeated under his breath like a protective mantra.

Sam's vision blurs with more tears and he chokes out a "It's okay Dean. I'll be here. I'll always be here till you're okay again."

_I'll never leave you. _

He puts the paper bag on the floor and escapes back into the cold comfort of research before sadness can break him down again.

From the corner of his eye, he sees his brother tear open the bag and scuff down his food like an animal, not caring how the food smears his face. This time Sam doesn't ignore it. This time, he brings a napkin over to him and shows him how to do it.

_Maybe…just…maybe…? _

"Here, you wipe it off like this," Sam demonstrates. His voice is calm but instead he's flipping out, hoping Dean will listen. "There's some on your hands too."

Dean's looking at him with furrowed brows (a new expression at least, other than the eerie blank one), like Sam's insane. He probably is.

But Sam doesn't give up, doesn't care how stupid he's looking. He repeats the demonstration again and again, slowly, patiently, prompting Dean to try it.

Eventually, Dean snatches the napkin from his hands and copies his exact movements, wiping his mouth and hands slowly while eyeing him. It's more of smearing his hands with the napkin rather than wiping it, but Sam is ecstatic he's responded.

"That's good Dean," his voice is filled with encouragement and happiness. "That's really good."

Dean returns back to his shell and the moment is gone. Sam tries not to feel disappointed, telling himself that it's better than nothing. He wants to see that smirk again, the teasing and banter that makes his brother…_him_. Not this broken, hallowed shadow of a man.

But it's a start, and Sam can only dare hope for more.

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><p><strong>AN:** I'll try to make the chapters longer and I hoped I haven't disappointed you. I'm not the best of writers and it feels really different writing stories that aren't anime-related but I'll try my best. Oh, and please, please, _please_ review with fingers crossed! I love reviews because they always make my day and really, even a simple one would make me grin like an idiot. (:


	2. Silence

**Chapter 2**

It's awfully quiet.

Dean sits crouched at the corner, alert. He likes the space. The two walls are solid and protected against his back.

They'll only be able to get him from the front. If he's lucky he'll be able to kick one of the bastards away if it comes charging towards him. Better if its goblins. They're green and nasty with those stupid pitchforks but at least they're small.

It's really awfully quiet.

Dean doesn't like it. It's always roaring with flames or there are always screams but _this_. This is too still, too...silent.

There's a large-built heavy guy that's damned insistent. He's really good—nailing that mousy brown hair that's a tad too long, the gargantuan body, the familiar voice.

But it's so well played it only makes Dean more irritated instead, at how the demon is ripping off his brother.

So it is with hostility Dean gives when Not-Sam announces he's going to get dinner. He glares withering daggers at his back till he's out of the door.

The moment the door shut, the moment that fake guy is away, the fire comes back. Suddenly flames are engulfing the room, burning everything in a hot orange blaze. Wails of anguished souls fill his ears and he covers his ears, whimpers escaping from his lips.

He's coming. The wails are getting louder and the fire's roaring. He's always liked a grand entrance. Any second now…

_"__It's what I like to call foreplay, Dean. Get it? Foreplay?"_

It's not funny. Dean doesn't laugh but that's a mistake. He gets slapped in the face.

"_Fucking laugh when you're supposed to you piece of shit!"_

The voice changes to something sweet again. Spidery fingers trail down his chained neck and a slithery tongue caresses his cheek.

"_We'll try it again. Get it, Dean?"_

He fake-laughs. It's dry and empty in his throat but that's enough to please the crazed demon.

"_Good! That's good darling. You're so handsome when you lighten up." He coos and pats his back. _

The voice drips with fake sugary sweetness.

He twirls a knife in his bony hands, a sadistic smile curling on his lips to reveal sharp, yellowed teeth.

_"Did you miss me?"_

The blade finds its way to his arm, and pierces into his skin. Blood oozes out.

"_Oh, how I've missed that beautiful red liquid!" _

_He drags the blade that's now embedded in the flesh down, ignoring the cries from Dean. Alastair's eyelids are fluttering, like he's in ecstasy from this. _

There've been worse times, Dean thinks. His body would be stretched out on a wooden board, chained and he'd be left in the hellish desert where black crows circle the red night. Then they'd swoop down on him and…Dean would wake up again, his body whole but his mind fragmented.

The worst would be when they used Sam.

They'd make him watch his little brother getting tortured and Dean looking on helplessly.

_Sam! _

Alastair would stand there, playing with the knife in his hands.

"I do love tearing you up, Dean. But there's nothing quite like seeing a loved one tortured to death is there?" The demon says gleefully. He raises the blade over the area of exposed tanned skin—his baby brother's heart.

_No, not Sam. Not Sam, please-_

He plunges it right in. The next moment passes by in a blood-curling scream and blood that now spills onto the wooden board.

_No…Sam…SAM!_

"Dean!"

With a snap, he's back in the motel room again. Dean looks around, glazed eyes watching his surroundings wildly. There's no Alastair, no fire, no wails. His skin isn't burning and he's not bleeding.

There's only Sam, who's standing before him.

_Sam. _

The scene of his brother's torture flashes back into his mind. His brother struggling against the chains, pleas choked from his lips…and then the blood, oh, the blood spilling everywhere, those beautiful green eyes staring sightlessly at nothing…

Someone is screaming. It's loud and noisy.

"Oh god, Dean! Dean, calm down!"

Hands are shaking him, Not-Sam's face is near him and Dean realises that _he's_ the one screaming.

Oh.

The scream dies down in his throat.

"Shh, it's okay," Strong arms envelope him and suddenly his face was pressed against a firm chest. He tenses against that physical contact but the demon doesn't let go.

"You're safe now, Dean."

Dean makes a noise in his throat. Why does this demon have to be so much like Sam?

"You're at a crappy motel, there are no nasty demons and there's only me. There'll always be me."

The hand strokes his back gently.

"I won't go anywhere anymore, okay?"

The demon's so much like Sam that it hurts, like Alastair's there and cruelly twisting his heart and then laughing at his pain. He wants to give in to the warm touch, even if it's an illusion. He's so tired of running, resisting.

He needs his brother, needs the life force that keeps him going when things are shitty. He couldn't stay afloat any longer, couldn't keep struggling.

The arms don't let go. Not-Sam is still whispering comforting nonsense into his ears.

For once, Dean really just wants to give up. He's exhausted. He can't do it anymore.

_Just this once, please? Please, be real?_

With an almost hopeful whimper, he stops resisting, stops running away an gives into the familiar comforting warmth instead.

_Please be real…_

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><p>Dean really breaks my heart): It's five AM now and...I actually have a bunch of chapters in my folder, but have too little confidence to post them. Does anyone every get this? Sigh. Oh well, please review! Harsh criticism is taken with Nutella. I LOVE LOVE LOVE reviews. They keep me going!<p> 


	3. Memories

Hey everyone! I know, i know. I started this story almost _one year_ back, but due to a bad writer's block and many things happening in life, I nearly gave up in it. But slowly I started to pick it up again. I started writing this chapter from scratch in one day. I actually had the idea for this a long time ago but lost the file, so I literally wrote this again in one sitting. Please note this is not Beta-ed so if I have any grammar or other mistakes feel free to point them out.

Disclaimer: As usual, nothing but this plot belongs to me.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

Life goes on. It's a knowledge that Sam's learned to understand from a young age. He also understands, that being strong is never easy.

There isn't a whole lot of change.

Dean's still silent and scared, he still huddles up stubbornly in his favourite corner of the room without budging, but it's getting better. He doesn't mind eating his food with Sam around anymore and he even learns how to eat with a fork and spoon. Sam will never forget the look of fascination on his brother's face, that one expression of pure wonder that looked so much like the old Dean as he opened Christmas presents, when he watched intently how Sam moved the fork to stab at a potato. It's a bittersweet, yet incredibly heart-warming sight.

It's those little things, the tiny improvements that keep him pushing on.

He seems to have relaxed around Sam, too. At the very least he's not glaring daggers anymore. Instead, the usually permanently hostile frown etched on his face whenever Sam is in the room slowly changes to a more neutral one. A "Oh, that's the guy that's always there" face. He still doesn't like to be touched, reacts quite violently, so Sam is careful to avoid physical contact. He hasn't uttered a single world either (not counting the whimpers when he's in bed).

It's a slow progress, but he's willing to take all the little blessings that come.

But after more than a week living in the shitty motel, he notices that Dean's pallor is just awfully pale and _off_.

_He needs to go out_, Sam thinks. He can't stay cooped up in the corner of a musty old motel room for the rest of his life.

It's a very daunting thing. Sam's worried about how Dean will react. There are a lot of things outside that might set him off. It takes Sam two day of hesitating and mind battling before he finally decides to approaches Dean with the question.

"Hey, Dean," he greets him warmly like every day. Green eyes that had been staring at the wall flicker to him curiously. "What do you think of eating out tonight?"

The eyes widen fractionally.

Sam shrugs. "I went online, saw that there's a nice beach just a few kilometres from here. They say there's a beach house that serves really awesome seafood. You wanna give it a go?"

Dean's silent for a few moments, just staring at Sam as though trying to decipher the meaning of his words. He bites his lips, and then suddenly—nods.

It's barely perceptible, a very slight inclination, but it shocks Sam so much his jaw goes slack for a few seconds.

"Oh," Sam feels stupidly overjoyed. It's the first response, the _first acknowledgement_ he's ever gotten from Dean ever since he came back here. Dean's _responding_. He's been _listening_. Not just a sound or whimper, but an actual _acknowledgement_ to something.

He tries again, feeling happier than he'd had in weeks. "That's great. Do you want to…try standing up?"

To his surprise again, Dean complies. He stands up slowly, and his muscles must be complaining because his knees suddenly give way and he's crashing onto the floor.

"Dean!" Sam quickly catches him, arms grabbing him but it's a wrong move. Dean cries out, jerking away.

"Shit," Sam hurriedly lets go, horrified. "Shit, I'm sorry. Dean, I'm sorry,"

Dean cradles his hand where Sam touched him close to his chest, like he's been burned. He's almost cowering away. He doesn't even look angry, just _scared_, like Sam's going to hit him.

_Way to go, Sam. He's almost better and now you've scared him again._

"I won't touch you anymore, okay? Do you still wanna go?"

There is a long silence, but a look at the door gives him the answer. They leave the run-down motel and get into the car. There's a soft wince from Dean as the late afternoon light greets his eyes, but other than that he's fine. The journey to the car's normal, quiet. Dean sits curled up by the door, gazing out of the window with that blank face.

Sam plays some music— AC/DC, Back in Black.

The soft rock music filters into the car.

Dean tilts his head in response, looking at the radio.

"You remember this song, Dean? It's your favourite band. Always insisted on playing it every goddamn ride," he remarks fondly.

He doesn't reply and turns back to look out of the window, but this time there's an almost thoughtful expression on his face.

By the time they reach the beach house, the sky's already dark with the night. The beach is beautiful, a long stretch of sand stretched out in front of a dark blue sea that seems to sparkle in the moonlight with each passing wave. A handful of people are frolicking in the water, splashing about and laughing. The rest dot the beach. The stars are especially prominent tonight, a blanket of twinkling stars littering a dark canvas.

It's a breath-taking sight.

The restaurant's located just a few metres more into the beach. They make their way there. They soon spot the restaurant, seeing the orange glows of the restaurant lights out of the big glass windows. It's a wooden structure that faces the beach. As they get closer, an old whitewashed board with the word 'Matiki's Seafood Paradise" is nailed at the side. Dean noticeably tenses as they get nearer the glass front doors.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," Sam says reassuringly. He wishes he can just reach over and give him a squeeze on the shoulder. "I'll be here."

Dean doesn't reply, but Sam knows he's listening because the shoulders relaxes slightly.

There are not many people at the restaurant because Sam's booked a quarter of the tables out already (the things you can do with a fake credit card). The place is usually full every night but he doesn't want to overwhelm Dean with too many people. They get led to their seat by a jovial-looking waiter in a crisp orange polo shirt and white apron. Their table's right by the window overlooking the ocean, so they have a nice view.

Sam looks through the menu. "The food's not bad. What would you like Dean? Dean?"

He looks up to see Dean peering out of the window, fixated at the ocean with a familiar awe in his eyes. Sam follows his gaze.

"Wanna head there later?"

Dean looks back at him with wide, startled eyes that clearly say, _Can we?_

"We can go right after our dinner."

Dean bites his lip and seems to hesitate, but nods.

Sam smiles. "Let's order some food first."

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><p>They order in a few selections of dishes. Everything's fresh and very tasty. They eat their dinner in the relaxing ambience of the place, Sam reminiscing about the past few times when they eaten out with Dad. It had both been hilarious and awkward. Overall their dinner is nothing short of scrumptious and Sam leaves the restaurant satisfied and happy. The moment they step onto the coast, Dean runs to the edge of the water.<p>

He bends down, carefully dipping his hand into it. His eyes seem to widen with wonder and he runs his fingers through the liquid, mesmerised. Sam bends down right by him, watching bemusedly and just content to see his brother looking happy.

They stay there for a long time, maybe ten minutes, Dean just running his hands through the water fascinatedly. He lifts his arm and lets the cold liquid run down it. Faraway, a couple of people are splashing about and playing, their laughter faint echoes in the air.

Sam watches the shimmering surface of the ocean thoughtfully.

"You always did like the ocean when you were young. You liked to swim. We were always moving. Once, Dad got us a motel that was near the beach. He forbade us from going there but you didn't care. It was one of the few times you actually disobeyed Dad. How old was I, ten? I still remember how we snuck out right in the middle of the night while Dad was out." Dean had stopped touching the water, seeming to sit back and listen to Sam quietly as he gazed at the ocean. "The sky had looked amazing—so starry. It was one of the most beautiful nights I had ever seen. And the _ocean_. It was so ridiculously cold, I nearly froze in there." Sam laughed, throwing his head back. "We had the wildest time though. You kept making sure we stayed within the safe line, always the worry wart. We snuck back into the house dripping wet, and Dad never found out. Do you still remember that?"

"I remember," Dean whispers. His green eyes look light, _clear_, or is that the reflection from the ocean?

"Yeah, then we got back a few hours later and—" Sam's breath suddenly halts in his throat and his entire body freezes. "Wait…Dean, what did you say?"

His tongue is thick in his mouth, and his heart's hammering in his chest.

Dean looks back at the ocean, and he slowly traces his finger in the water again. He seems almost _shy_.

"I remember," he whispers again. His voice is very soft, slightly hoarse from not using it but he's speaking.

_Oh God. Dean's talking._

"That's—" Sam swallows. _He's talking. He's actually talking. Oh my god. _A flood of emotions are crashing into him now, making him dizzy. Hope, relief, joy. "That's great."

Dean returns to playing with the water.

"I've missed your voice, man," his voice cracks a little. "You've no idea, Dean. No idea,"

That night, the two brothers stay by the ocean. They gaze at the beautiful twilight sky, play in the water. It may seem childish from outside, but they don't care. Sam doesn't care. It's their childhood, their little memories; it's a world that _no one_ but the two brothers will ever understand. And Sam's content with it that way. It's their world. Their unspoken happiness to keep. They move on to frolic in the water, and Sam allows himself a moment of surprise when he lightly splashes Dean with water and instead of Dean backing away scared he splashes back instead.

They engage in a water war, bombarding each other with scoops of water. Dean whips around after being splashed from the back, hair dripping wet and the biggest, most radiant and amazing smile Sam's ever seen, forms on his face. The face scar is still there, a faint white line across his face, but all he sees is the smile that for the first time, lights up that beautiful face. It's a start, and it is then Sam _knows_ that he knows it's only going to get better from now on.

**The End**

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><p>AN: I've never officially finished a story series before. Never. It feels odd...strange in a way. Like a path has ended. But this has been a rewarding journey. I reviewed my past chapters and was disgusted by my writing so I kept editing them. It's a tedious process but i'm happy to say I think I've improved as of now. I hope everyone's had a fun time reading this, and if you did like it, please feel free to review. You have absolutely no idea how much reviews mean to me. **If you do review, I will love you forever! ;)**


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